


When Obama Met Putin

by Sylverfinger



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Also Obama knows how to cook, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mention of Michelle Obama, Obama is a Divorced Dad, Obama is an awkward gay puppy, Obama's two daughters Also Appear, Putin Also Paints, Putin Has Muscles, Putin Sometimes Wears Designer Jeans, Random Cameos of other Presidents, This is Utter Cra(p)ck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4648701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylverfinger/pseuds/Sylverfinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vlad Putin moves in the neighbourhood and Barack has a crush.</p><p>Also, <em>does Vlad like him too?!</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Obama Met Putin

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the most wonderful [Viktory](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Viktory)!  
> Kinda really really cracky.

The minute Vladimir Putin moved in the 787 house, Blandon Terrace, Barack Obama knew he would be trouble.

Two months ago the previous inhabitant of the three-story to Barack’s left had upped and went ‘visiting some cousin in Madrid - or was that Namur’: to the general relief of the neighbourhood, as he had been presuming and loud when drunk and never tended his front lawn.

For two idle winter months the House Next Door had sat cold and alone, the red For Sale sign sometimes swinging gently in the wind, the only witness to the snows that came and melted away again in preparation for spring. For two idle, monotonous winter months Barack drove to work, drove back home, and made himself dinner with little anticipation of the morrow.

It was a chilly, bright Saturday the day the moving truck came.

Barack was reading the newspaper in an armchair facing the window, counting down the days to his month of custody of his two daughters. It was some minutes past one - he remembered it clearly.

A slow, gradual rumbling made him look up. There, around the corner, Barack could see the head of a large white truck.

Barack’s curiosity stirred. He closed the newspaper and put it on the table beside, and stood and looked out the window.

The truck drew up to the empty house to the left. Its body blocked his view of the houses opposite. Workers dropped out the doors and unlocked the back, setting up a ramp and climbing inside. A car, black and shiny, pulled up behind it. The driver door opened.

A man, young-ish and unsmiling, climbed out. He wore jeans and a tshirt despite the cold weather. His blond hair was cropped short. His exposed arms, muscular and pale, shut the car’s door behind him with a sound that echoed up the street. A flare of wind flapped the shirt against his chest. Barack noted his chest was very sculpted - then pinched himself.

The man strode up to the movers and started talking with one of them. Then, with a motion like a salmon, he hauled himself up into the truck’s back and disappeared. Moments later he resurfaced. The muscled arms were supporting a sofa. The pale-haired man maneuvered it down the ramp, stepped up the driveway, and started backing it in the house. Something made him look up. Barack dived away - but not before he had locked eyes with the man. 

Barack leaned against the wall, breathing quickly. His heart fluttered - he pinched himself again. Barack waited a few seconds, until his pulse settled (kind of), and then peeked out slowly - cautiously - once more. The man was gone. 

Barack tried to settle himself down again in the armchair. He picked up the newspaper - _USA trillions in debt_ \- and flipped to a random page and stared at it. But the paper was rustling in his tremoring fingers, and the little black lines were crossing and uncrossing in front of his eyes.

Barack gave it up as a bad job and poured himself some wine.


	2. Apple Crumble Pie and A Legally Blonde Reference

The very next day was a Sunday. Barack had gotten up early to make his apple crumble pie - the best in the neighbourhood, everyone knew. He covered it in tinfoil and wrapped it up, changed his shirt one last time, shrugged on a jacket and took a deep breath and walked out his door. The steps up to number 787 seemed tall as temples. He cradled the hot pie with one arm and rang the doorbell.

A silence later, the door opened and Barack came face-to-face with the pale man. Though he wasn’t _short_ , Barack was still a good half-head taller. The man was wearing sweats and a modest button-down shirt. Barack opened his mouth, blinked, and closed it. The top two buttons were undone. Was that intentional?

Barack put on a friendly neighbour smile and flashed his white teeth. "Hi, I'm Barack. Obama. I live next door to your right."

The man smiled, with his mouth. His eyes were a very pale blue, and they never left Barack's face. "My name is Vladimir Putin, but call me Vlad. Pleased to meet you." He had the essence of a Russian accent, which was really very very sexy, for some strange reason.

"You too, Vlad. Anyway, I made you this apple crumble for a little housewarming gift. It's piping hot, fresh out the oven, you could freeze it or have it with your lunch."

Vlad accepted the pie with a nod. "Thank you."

"Hope to see you around, then?" Barack took a half-step back and smiled a little wider to hide the sudden weakening of his legs.

"Of course." Vlad shifted his grip on the pie. "Do you want to come in?"

"Oh, no, it's alright. I've got things to do anyway, work. Busy job. Yes. I'm sure you've got too many things to do too, moving in. Settling, and. Things."

Vladimir Putin's face was, as it had been for essentially the entire discourse, expressionless, but Barack thought he caught the barest flicker of - was he being optimistic, imagining things? - disappointment. "I won't keep you any longer, then. Thank you for the pie."

"Have a nice day."

They waved goodbye and Barack stepped down the stairs. He heard the click of the door closing behind him and let out a long breath, staring purposefully forward (and not at) the house as he went back to his own.

The rest of that Sunday Barack spent by himself - he made a simple lunch, went out at two after putting the dishes in the dishwasher to buy groceries, came back and took care of some work and ate dinner and went to bed at eleven thirty. In the morning he drove to work, drove back home at six, made dinner and went to bed at night. He did the same thing the next day, the day after that, the day after that. For an entire five-day week Barack fell back into his routine and by Friday evening he had almost entirely convinced himself he really only glanced at the house next door in the morning, strained to catch a glimpse of the pale man in the evening, fell asleep wondering about him at night because Vlad was a newcomer to the neighbourhood and Barack was being healthily and entirely objectively curious.

The first morning of the weekend came and went. Barack had just cleared the one-setting table of lunch - Grilled Tandoori Chicken Wings with Mango-Chile Raita - and settled down for his afternoon newspaper when his doorbell rang.

Barack's gaze shot up and he hesitated, then pinched himself. Who would it be? Salesmen weren't allowed on Blandon Terrace, and the annual government census had already passed. Maybe it was the energy company, come to take a survey, or... something.

Barack placed his paper down and went to get the door. With a general smile he opened it... and came face-to-face with Vlad.

His breathing stuttered but he quickly recovered himself. "Vlad, hey! Can I help you with something?"

"Hello, yes. I have found out that my sofa is at a weird angle from my tv and also blocks the view out the window. It's a small thing and I would not bother you, but -"

"Oh, sure. No problem, I'm happy to help." Barack shifted his weight to the other foot. Vlad's eyes were very pale.

"Thank you, Barack."

Barack gave his trademark grin. "Anytime."

Barack put on shoes and they walked to his house together. Vlad wasn't exceptionally tall, but his strides were quick and with deadly intent and Barack had to lengthen his own to keep up. They mounted the steps and Vlad pushed open the door.

It wasn't the first time Barack had been inside number 787, but he could hardly recognize it now. Vlad had unpacked almost everything, as far as he could see; a sole box sat in a corner, marked OTHER. The walls hung paintings of dark grey and brown and light and the furniture was all rearranged. No litter of red wrappers lined the floors, no slant-eyed fat tabby cat prowled underfoot: the boards were freshly waxed and gleaming and everything _matched_ like a magazine house interior.

The living room had a bright splash of colour in its red bear coffee table decoration. A large painting of an abstract woman's face hung over the mantle - grey and blue and rose. The white sofa was the same one Barack had seen Vlad carrying from his window the day Vlad moved in; true to his word, it blocked half the window and was a weird angle from the tv.

"Could you lift that end? One, two, three, up. Yes, just to there. A little more, a little more... yes, good."

Barack bent down slowly with his knees and let go of the sofa. His fingers and arms ached. Vlad didn't look like he'd exerted any effort at all; he could've been playing Döhler[1] for all Barack could tell. Barack decided to rest against the sofa and peer at the tv. Did he look awkward? He definitely looked awkward. What if he just casually... turned? Wait no - that would just be weird -

But then Vlad captured Barack's gaze and walked towards him. Barack froze. Vlad brushed lightly past his back and stood at the end of the sofa less than half a meter away and scrutinized the tv. "Good, but it could be better." He must've caught Barack's nervous glance of the space between their hands because he added almost as a footnote "I always sit on this end of the sofa. In my home back in Moscow it was the end closest to the outlet. I liked to keep the tv on when I worked. A habit."

"You came from Russia?"

"For business. My company's expanding, and here is one of the places. I'm the head of the new foreign branch. I moved to this country around three months ago."

Vlad's pale eyes bore into Barack's own as if he was supposed to be able to think of a response (and not how Vlad could probably pick him up with one arm _what?_ ). Barack felt his cheeks grow hot and dropped his gaze, and looked to the blank tv screen for inspiration. His gaze fell on the painting over the fireplace. Over in the bottom right corner, in spiky black, was the name V. PUTIN.

Barack started.

"That painting, you painted it?"

Vlad looked round at what Barack was talking about. "That? Yes, a few years ago now, back in 2009."

"It's beautiful." He meant it.

Vlad smiled, but this time with his eyes only. Somehow even though his lips never moved it made his face light up, like a new wax candlestick being lit. "Thank you."

"Do you paint a lot?" Barack said.

Vlad gave a real smile this time, and Barack caught his breath. "Not much, in truth. Not at all for two years. Most of everything I have done is given away to friends in Moscow, and the rest just on display in this house." He turned and leaned against the sofa like a jaguar relaxes on a tree.

Barack took a moment to digest this information. "So you mean everything here, every painting hung up here... is by you?" Barack pivoted and found all the paintings in sight. Now that he knew it was there, Barack identified the V. PUTIN scrawled in every artist's corner. "What other hidden talents do you have, do you play the piano too, maybe?"

Vlad laughed. "I started painting when I was a child but only ever as a hobby." He pushed off the sofa and walked around him again. Barack had to put a hand on the sofa back when he felt a whisper of Vlad's breath on the back of his neck.

"You know, if I put the tv here, I could see it better from the sofa. Will you come and help me move it?"

Barack obeyed. They shuffled the tv stand across the white carpet. A CD case perched on top slid smoothly off.

"Don't worry about it, I'll pick that up later."

They set the tv stand down. The CD lay a step behind Barack's foot. Vlad moved to put it back on the tv stand but Barack said, "No, no, I've got it." He turned and bent at the waist and snagged it up in his fingers, straightened, and handed the CD back to Vlad before coming to the sudden realization that he had just executed a Elle-Woods-worthy bend and snap.

A second too late, Vlad's eyes flicked back up to his face. 

They stared at each other for a fraction of a moment. 

And then Vlad accepted the CD with a thank you and shelved it in the tv stand. Barack avoided his eyes and Vlad did the same, and after a protracted length of small talk Barack made his goodbyes and Vlad walked him out to the extent of his own porch. That night as Barack lay in his bed, sleep was reluctant at coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Döhler, Theodor - a German composer and piano virtuoso of the Romantic period.


	3. The Bell Pepper Incident

"And then I was like, 'I don't know what Jessie sees in you, but she's my best friend and if you do anything like that ever again I'll kill you with my bare hands.' I mean, if that jerk thinks he can play her like one of Sarah's boyfriends and get away with it without me kicking his ass down to Miami!"

"Attagirl." Barack shifted the phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder and said, "Why's she still with him, even?" He picked a last tomato and tied the plastic bag, then set it down in his shopping cart.

"I know, right?" Halfway across the city his daughter Malia Ann sighed into the mouthpiece. "She can do _so_ much better than that slimy arrogant little quarterback dipshit. She says he's cute, and maybe his face is kinda pretty but he's such a _dick_."

Barack wheeled his cart towards the greens and grabbed a box of blueberries along the way. "David's done some pretty jerk things, but is he _that_ bad?"

"Oh my god, I don't even know where to start. You remember Stan's party a few months ago? Well..."

Barack listened to her as he made his round of the fresh fruits and vegetables section. He picked up leeks and parsnip, and a bag of red potatoes.

"...anyways, it was Luke's fault technically but he swears someone set him up, and then after that Jessie and Ron made up _again_ and it's been a whole month."

Barack shifted the phone to his left hand. "Point taken, he is a dick. But um, isn't he also friends with, what's-his-name, uh... Tommy?"

There was a sudden silence on the line that sounded like a blush. "Yeah, he is."

"Well, how's that going?" he teased. He stopped by the celery, and looked around for a bag dispenser - and caught sight of someone familiar an aisle over. His heart skipped a beat.

" _Daaad!_ " his daughter protested in his ear.

"Ow, ow! Quieter, please?"

"I do not like Tommy."

"Alright."

Barack tore a bag from the dispenser with one hand and took another furtive glance. A man, pale-haired and pale-skinned, stood buying carrots with his back to Barack. He wore designer jeans and a black polo shirt. Barack recognized the haircut, the slump of the shoulders, the way the man moved. Barack turned away quickly and stared at the vegetables.

"Really, dad! I don't like him. I mean, he's my friend, we talk sometimes."

"Alright. No, really, I believe you. But you gave me that picture of him from facebook, and you can't go and tell me you don't think he's hot. And he's single."

" _Daaaaad!_ "

Barack smiled and wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder again. In the aisle over, Vlad Putin finished with the carrots and was starting to move. Barack reached for a red bell pepper absently.

Distant footsteps echoed in the world beyond the phone. There was indistinct conversation, and then more footsteps and some crackling. "Hey, sorry, mom says I gotta go to soccer practice now. Talk to you later?"

"Okay. Love you, honey."

"Love you. Bye."

The line ended and Barack hung up too.

A soft voice behind him made him jump. "Hello, Barack."

Barack spun around and found his face in front of Vlad's. He backed into his shopping cart and almost tripped. "H...hey, Vlad! What're you doing here?" A stupid question. Barack was mortified. Maybe he could melt into the ground, like the winter snow. Could Vlad tell he was blushing? Barack was sure he could tell.

"I'm doing the same thing as you, it seems," Vlad said, but took the edge off with a wry smile.

Barack noticed him glance at the phone in his hand. "My daughter," he explained, and then added for some reason "She's living with my ex-wife right now." He slid the phone in his pocket and briefly considered the merits of making a run for Wales.

Vlad said, " 'Ex-wife'?"

"We divorced after I told her I like men and I was closeted for decades." The words came tumbling out his mouth before his brain remembered to stop them; Barack made an executive decision to freeze, his heart beating very fast and his fingertips tingling a little.

Vlad had no expression and no comment but "Ah." He paused, and then: "I couldn't help overhearing the very last bit of your conversation. You sounded like a very good father."

Barack accepted the compliment with a smile and a fumbling of the bell pepper. "Thank you." He tried to subtly stuff it in the bag. "I only get to see my daughters a quarter of the time, though, with the transportation to school and everything. Most of the time I'm living alone in my house."

Vlad had a way of looking at someone that made them feel like he knew all their secrets. He raised his eyebrows briefly at the last statement and said, "The same as me, then."

"Really? Living alone... No girlfriend?"

Vlad smiled. "Not really my area of expertise."

"Ah." Barack found the neat stacks of bell peppers really quite fascinating.

Vlad looked at him long and searchingly. Barack contemplated bell peppers.

Vlad opened his mouth the same moment Barack reached for another pepper. "Do you- "

The reason Vlad stopped was not because he had suddenly reconsidered the question, nor because a cat had flown idiomatically into his mouth and forcibly seized his tongue. It was because of a strange jerk of Barack's hand the moment Vlad had uttered his two-word query, followed by a steady toppling of the stack of red bell peppers.

Vlad was moving before Barack could react. He dived forward and trapped the falling bell peppers and Barack almost fell over and suddenly all Barack could see and smell and touch was _him_ , and on Vlad's other side he could see three peppers rolling down and Barack lunged forwards with his arm out and stopped them.

Vlad froze. They held still for a long moment. Barack's breath blew past Vlad's collarbone.

Vlad's breathing stuttered under him.

Barack was suddenly very conscious of the way Vlad's back under his shirt radiated out heat, and the way Vlad's designer jeans were rasping against his own slacks.

Barack awkwardly reached around Vlad with his other hand and grabbed the three bell peppers. He lifted them up carefully over their heads and placed them on stabler ground, then unwrapped himself from around Vlad. He helped Vlad restack the peppers trapped with his body. Barack moved back quickly.

A few people were turning away, muttering. Barack tried not to think of how Vlad had smelled like winter and almond milk.

Vlad - were his cheeks _pink?_

"Uh... Sorry."

Vlad dismissed the need for the apology with a small movement of his head and a flick of his eyes to the restacked peppers, as if to make sure they wouldn't avalanche again but also as if to gather his composure. He broke the tension with a diplomatic laugh and a "None of them fell to the ground."

Barack smiled, too. "All thanks to you."

They touched gazes, but their eyes jumped from each other like hot oil on water. Both of them gave little manly nods at different unspecified produce. They each shoved one hand in a pocket.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Finally Vlad said, "I should go buy dairy."

"And I'll finish getting my vegetables. I promise I'll be careful."

Vlad twitched a corner of his mouth cooperatively. He stared into the middle distance for a moment, then gave Barack a full-on friend-ish smile - the kind of his that crinkled his face into clean-shaven Santa Claus but forgot about his eyes. "It was nice meeting you here."

"You too." Barack watched Vlad wheel his shopping cart away, and sighed.

He had a pretty fine ass, though.


End file.
